


To Hurt the Big Brother

by Impala_Cherry_Trickster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Awesome Molly Hooper, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft's Umbrella, Post-Canon, Protective John Watson, Protective Mycroft, Sensory Deprivation, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock is a Mess, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Cherry_Trickster/pseuds/Impala_Cherry_Trickster
Summary: Someone attempting to hurt Mycroft makes the decision that capturing Sherlock is the best way to do so.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper
Comments: 22
Kudos: 154





	1. Torture

It should not be easy for a person to disappear. Not when the entire British Government were trying to find them, yet here they were. John Watson had been in situations like this before, but never with so little to go on. Never with Mycroft Holmes pacing in the room, his usual cold-demeanour dropped the second the Agent came in to admit they still hadn't found Sherlock.

Sherlock. After everything that had happened recently, finding out about Eurus and the relationship with Mycroft crumbling, it was a mess. They had moved back into Baker Street, working hard to get the flat back into a liveable condition. Then came the moment that John had been dreading. Something bad had to happen, it always did.

He’d been picking up Rosie from playschool, when the car had pulled up. Anthea stepped out, not on her phone like usual, but actually looking at him. It was the first indication that something had happened, and it was followed with the knowledge that Mrs Hudson was in hospital. Someone had broken into the flat, and Sherlock was gone.

That was forty-three hours ago. John sighed, looked across to where Molly was holding a very impatient Rosie, trying to comfort her. She could tell something was wrong, even at this age.

‘Any news?’ Greg came walking in with coffee. He handed one to John, placed one down on the table for Mycroft, then offered Molly one. She accepted with a brief smile, before going back to trying to entertain his daughter.

‘Nothing. They’re covering their tracks.’ John had been listening to every piece of news that came through, but it wasn’t enough for comfort.

‘We’ve got everyone out in the field…’ Greg started, but Mycroft interrupted.

‘It won’t help. If MI6 can’t find him, then the Scotland Yard have no hope.’ Mycroft’s pessimistic attitude wasn’t a new thing. Ever since Eurus Holmes had entered the picture, his views had turned slightly macabre.

‘Well, it doesn’t hurt to have a little extra.’ Lestrade was trying to keep calm, John could tell. Despite the fact he would never say it aloud, he cared for Sherlock. They’d known each other for a while, five years before John had come into the picture. It had been Greg that had managed to keep Sherlock on the (mostly) straight.

‘Why take him?’ Mycroft muttered, to nobody in particular. His deductions had usually been saved for moments when competing when Sherlock, for times that he needed to prove that he was the smarter brother. With Sherlock’s disappearance came Mycroft’s skill being used frequently, for anyone who dared to tell the oldest Holmes that his brother still hadn't been found.

‘To get our attention? Demands?’ All things that had been considered already. The window for a ransom was closing quickly. There had been no attempts at contact.

‘Or for fun.’ Molly blurted, and when heads turned in her direction, she continued.

‘It’s a game, isn’t it? If they’re smart enough to capture Sherlock Holmes, then this has to be a game.’ After Sherrinford, Molly had been spending a lot of time with Sherlock. John had taken a while to notice it, had presumed it was because of the words that had been uttered down in that cell. Instead, he began to pick up on the fact that Molly was no longer attempting to impress him.

‘But who could be smart enough to play a game like that?’ John voiced aloud, thinking to Moriarty. He was definitely dead, but it wouldn’t be difficult for another to take his place. For someone else to step into the shoes, to torment Sherlock.

‘And what’s the endgame.’ Lestrade added, his coffee abandoned on the table. Mycroft, from where he was leaning against his umbrella, let out a humourless laugh.

‘Look at all of you. Even with him gone, you try to deduce.’ His anger wasn’t actually directed at them, he was just hurt. Sadly, the only people that could ever check Mycroft’s temper were Anthea and Sherlock. One was missing, the other was checking on Mrs Hudson in hospital.

‘Yes, we are. Because there is no gain in feeling sorry for yourself.’ Molly snapped, quite unlike her old attitude. It was nice to see her confidence, even if getting in a fight with Mycroft probably wasn’t the wisest decision.

‘Sentiment.’ Mycroft muttered under his breath.

John hoped they had a lead soon, or the group was going to tear itself apart.

**

Sherlock Holmes had already decided that the people were smart. He loved a game, but this one wasn’t aimed at him. He was just a pawn, something being used to gain attention, and the very thought made him ache. This was too well-planned to be an amateur, and with the addition of his treatment, he could only assume there was a vendetta to serve. Was it against him? No, they weren’t angry in their movements. It had to be an anger against one of those closest to him.

The list wasn’t long. John Watson, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft. Rosie, but she was far too young to have enemies. Mrs Hudson, but if they had been angry at her, they would have taken her when they stormed into the flat. Logically, he could dismiss Molly as being the intended recipient. Her work may be a job that not many approved of, but she very rarely dealt with the living.

Lestrade was an interesting one, because he’d put away a lot of people. Anger spiked easily, especially towards the law enforcement, but it seemed a dangerous game to play just to get at the Detective.

They knew who he was, and how best to make their move. He was chained up in what he presumed was a basement, the taste of the air and the way temperature affected it had been enough to understand that. It was a plain room, asides for the basic amenities he’d been given. A blanket, a toilet and sink that he could just about reach.

The lights were far too bright, it had his head spinning within hours of being here. Evidently, they knew how to exploit his own mind against them.

Then there was the noise. Constant sounds filled the rooms through the speaker system, supposed to overpower his ability to think. When using his mind, quietness was the way to concentrate. He was supposed to be uncomfortable, to crave the time when the lights were dimmed and the music was stopped.

As he found out no more than six hours ago, that was not the better option. When darkness fell, and Sherlock could finally find peace, the Man came in. He was not the person that had snatched him, nor had any emotional connection to the case. It was his job to provide the torture, to drug him like an animal and to beat him.

Sherlock had decided that whoever had taken him, it wasn’t for John either. It didn’t make sense, most who hated John also hated Sherlock. They came as a pair, for all the cases they had been on, and Sherlock knew this wasn’t personal against him.

So, his brother had upset somebody. The list was probably very long, and with the overload to his senses, he was struggling to connect the dots. He missed John, even missed Molly and Lestrade, they always had the ability to listen to his mind working.

The lights were on, at the moment. The sound of choice was traffic, car engines and horns blaring, loud enough that he could almost picture it. A road, the smell of exhaust fumes, his mind whirring to provide the possible cars that could fit the sound of the engine. It didn’t help, the more he tried to use his mind, the more blurred it became.

Had Mycroft come to the same deduction? Did he even care that Sherlock was gone? No, he knew his brother wouldn’t leave him. The very point was that he was a Holmes, that despite the anger between them, they still would support each other. Mycroft had always been there for him, no matter how hard Sherlock had tried to rebel.

At least Rosie and John hadn't been in the flat when they came.

Sherlock cursed, dug his nails down into his bruised thighs as he finally hopped onto that connection. The person had to have been watching, knew that John wouldn’t be there. He was getting slower, he thought, letting sentiment cloud his judgement. Wasn’t that what his brother was always rambling about?

**

Seventy-eight hours after Sherlock Holmes had been reported missing, Mycroft was finally shouted at by his superior. John blinked, watched as the Holmes sunk into his chair, deflating like a balloon.

‘Mr Holmes, I understand that you have worked hard to ensure that nobody was aware of your connection to Sherlock…’ It had made sense, the more people that knew they were brothers, the more people that could use one against the other,

‘But I need you to focus on the task at hand.’ Mycroft had very few superior officers. John learned this during his time knowing Mycroft Holmes, the man answered to barely anybody. Right now, it was clear Mycroft needed someone else to be in charge, he looked awful. His usually smart suit was unkept, his tie slightly frayed at the edges where he’d been stroking it in worry. John found himself smiling slightly, a deduction that Sherlock would have made.

‘Forgive me for my… outburst.’ John was slightly startled at the apology, as were Greg and Molly if their raised eyebrows were anything to go by. With Rosie being cared for by his sister, who had managed to get her life on track for long enough that he would trust her with his daughter.

‘It is understandable, Mr Holmes. Family can be… complicated.’ There was nobody more complicated than Holmes family, John could attest to that.

‘What news do you have on Sherlock?’ Molly broke into the conversation, while Mycroft went back to his silent state.

‘Very little. From what we have managed to gather, Sherlock seems to be a person taken to provoke, not out of revenge.’

‘So he was taken to hurt someone?’ Lestrade concluded, and the man, who had asked them to call him Andrew, nodded.

‘Yes. Unfortunately, Mycroft has managed to make a lot of enemies during his career…’ John realised what he was saying a moment later. Sherlock had been taken to get at Mycroft. And, from the looks of it, the plan was working brilliantly. He’d never seen the eldest Holmes look so… broken.

‘Do we have any leads on where he might be?’

‘No. Right now, Mr Holmes knows far too much to be abandoned by the British Government, so every effort is being put into finding him. Including the use of Eurus Holmes, should we have no leads by the end of the fourteenth day.’ Fourteen days. Two weeks of Sherlock being kidnapped, before they went to the smartest person on the planet.

They were only on the fourth day. That gave them ten days to find a lead, before Eurus was consulted. And they all knew she would have a price.

‘I can assure you that we are doing everything in our power to find Mr Holmes.’ The superior officer aimed the last bit at Mycroft, but he barely reacted. The door opened, Anthea coming in with her mobile in hand, giving a quick nod to Andrew.

‘Sir, I’ve compiled the list of potential power-figures currently operating throughout the world.’ Mycroft looked up to her, the smallest smile crossing his face.

‘Thank you, Anthea.’

‘Mycroft, might I remind you that working with us on this…’ The Officer halted, probably because Mycroft’s expression had dropped back to a cold one.

Ten more days.

**

Sherlock had an internal clock. It was the very basis for his Mind Palace, an understanding of time. It kept the rest of his mind in focus. Unfortunately, somewhere after the one-hundred and eighty-sixth hour, Sherlock’s clock had begun to crack. At first it was no more than seconds lost, but it began to creep upwards, until, for the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself lost.

The light was on at the moment, revealing the state of his body. His clothes no longer remained on his form, tattered and ripped to shreds. He admired the bruising, he’d studied a lot of torture methods in his time, knew the exact pattern that bruises would take with different pressures. The man that did this had to be ex-military, he was far too practiced to be a novice.

The sounds were becoming frustrating, difficult to separate from the constant buzz in his head. They had to have some sort of psychological training, they knew how to use his own senses against him, to overpower him with far too much to sift through. His mind may be powerful, but even it had limits to how much it could absorb.

With his clock gone on the eighth day of captivity, he presumed he had to be roughly on the tenth by now. It was an estimate, and he hated that very fact.

The light had been turned off six times in total. Six beatings, of a constant strength and a practiced hand. The same man, who would first use a dart-gun to lower his ability to resist. Some sort of paralytic, his body had been trying to identify the toxin since it first entered his bloodstream.

This time, when the light went off, Sherlock laughed. His body showed signs of fear, his hands beginning to shake, his heart speeding up. There were limits to how much his physical form could take, even if his mind was trying to keep the pace. There was little point fighting, it was far better to conserve his energy for recovering from the toxin.

The quietness was haunting, before a single click could be heard, and the dart hit his skin. The prick was accompanied with Sherlock breathing out, his body becoming hazy within moments. It was a higher dosage than normal, presumably because he’d managed to adjust to the lower dosage. Another fault in having control over his body so well, that he became accustomed to certain things in life.

He was pulled up as usual, the chains hooking him to the wall rather than his usual roaming abilities. He took the time to get another look at the man, although it was dark and he struggled to see very much. His body wouldn’t cooperate, so his eyes had to do most of the work, while the man began to sort through tools. He wore a headpiece, night-vision, and it looked to be fitting with standard military equipment.

A hammer was chosen, a tool that he rarely thought effective in torture. It was used in certain places, like the toes, or along his chest. It hurt, yes, his mouth producing no more than grunting sounds due to the drug in his system. It was intended to hurt later, to cripple. He didn’t want the satisfaction of listening to the pain as it was administered.

‘When he brought me in, I didn’t realise how pretty you’d be. It’s almost a shame.’ The man never spoke, and that was his first mistake. Sherlock could have laughed in joy, even the most skilled of game-players could not account for all their pieces. This man, hired to do a job, had just admitted to so many things.

‘I think I would have liked you.’ A hand was on his bare chest, then moving down over his stomach, but Sherlock was already too focused on the words. It was a simple contract, no questions asked, which was why the man knew very little about him. The person who crafted the game, it was a man. Although that only limited the world down by just less than half, it had benefits in this act. Politics, the most likely aspect in which Mycroft had managed to annoy someone enough for… this.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ A hand closed around him, but Sherlock merely smiled.

**

‘It’s day fourteen.’ Mycroft rose his head, and John winced. He looked like a ghost, barely there anymore, and the Doctor was beginning to worry. If they managed to find Sherlock, would there be anything left of the older Holmes?

‘Sir.’ Anthea was the one that managed to snap him from his mood. She was waiting for the confirmation needed, and with a heavy heart, Mycroft nodded. John looked to Molly and Greg, it would be there first time properly meeting Eurus Holmes.

The flight was made in silence, the only sound being the helicopter and the chatter from the front. Anthea sat across from him, her face showing the concern held for her boss, while Mycroft just looked out of the window.

It felt like descending back to Hell. He remembered the last time he had been here, when he’d thought Sherlock was about to shoot him. Then realising that he would shoot Mycroft, or in fact himself. So many things that went wrong, and now they were in the elevator.

‘Don’t step past the line.’ Mycroft stated randomly, presumably to the two new members of their group.

Eurus Holmes looked up the moment the lift opened. Perfectly calm, John had been informed she no longer spoke unless Sherlock was here. She rose up from the bed, walking to the centre of the room and halting. Mycroft moved as well, up to the line, but did not cross it.

‘That’s her?’ Molly whispered, Anthea nodding her head slowly.

‘Like a shark in a tank.’ Greg said under his breath, Mycroft looking back at them.

‘She can hear you, you know.’ John had gotten used to the impossible, the entire Holmes family radiated it. She shouldn’t be able to hear them from that distance, but Eurus shouldn’t be able to do a lot of things.

‘We need your assistance, Eurus.’ Not sister, John noted. No love between the two of them, none of the loyalty that drove Mycroft to despair over Sherlock.

‘You’ve lost Sherlock.’ Her voice was detached, drifting away like it had been on the audio tapes of her. Not the woman that had tortured them, kept them like mice to experiment on.

‘Someone has taken him, yes. We need…’

‘You want. Not need.’ She corrected, and Mycroft took a step over the line.

‘This is not a game, Eurus. Sherlock’s life is at stake.’

‘Bold that you assume him alive.’ She didn’t flinch, but Mycroft did. The woman cocked her head to the side, presumably deducting, before she copied his movement. A step towards the glass.

‘He is alive. We just need to find him.’ Mycroft had regained control, his voice perfectly calm.

‘He was taken because of you. Not quite the big brother you hoped?’ John had always found her ability to tear people apart frightening. Now, witnessing it done to the cleverest man he’d ever met, it was terrifying. Mycroft hesitated, before he sighed.

‘Name your price.’

‘I want to see him. I want you to bring Sherlock to me.’ No, it was a terrible idea, there were so many things that could go wrong. But, they’d at least have a chance of getting him back.

‘I cannot convince Sherlock to do anything.’

‘You will. He won’t be your Sherlock, when you find him.’

**

The inside of his head was supposed to be a sanctuary. A place of rest, where he could let himself wonder about the world, which supported his body. Now, Sherlock resented his Mind Palace, found himself stuck within the constraints it had made. What they had done was torture. Inhumane, cracking him apart to study how his brain worked, before shutting him down to the bare instincts.

No touch, no human companionship of any kind. The lights were back, burning his eyes until he had to squeeze them shut, the sound he could no longer block out with his hands clamped over his ears.

A straightjacket. Ironic, considering it was what kept Jim Moriarty in his cell in Sherlock’s mind, now used to keep him perfectly still.

‘Deduct.’ The voice stated once more. Sherlock was nothing more than a vessel, a body hosting a mind far more able than his skin could provide. The person in front had been scrubbed clean, stripped off all their original clothing and placed into an outfit that was supposed to make it difficult for his mind to work. To take away all that he knew about how his mind worked.

The first person they brought in, Sherlock refused to play the game. He had been tortured enough, no longer cared what bones they broke or where the hands wandered. Then they had dragged the woman up to him, where he was unmoving in the straightjacket, and asked him again. There had been very little that he could draw about her anyway, not that he said that aloud.

A knife had run across her neck so quickly that he had not had time to speak. Then he was soaked in blood, the taste awful and the heat burning his skin, it had dripped down his body until Sherlock slipped away into his mind.

This was the eighth person that had come in. With his mind now shutting off the emotion, it was a lot easier to concentrate on all that they’d attempted to remove.

A man that lived alone, had done so for at least twenty-years. He was left handed, had previously suffered from a skin condition that left a small scar on his right arm. He’d never married, was more likely to be interested in men than women. Ex-military, probably a sniper, judging from the slight twitch of the trigger finger, and the strain that one eye used to focus. Even though he was wearing shoes, Sherlock concluded that he was missing two toes on his left foot, noted the vein structure that could be seen thanks to the shorts he had been provided with.

He said all of this aloud, let his mind find work the problem, while the rest of him ached. His arms were stretched around him, his back hurt from the position he’d been forced to keep, the pressure in his chest more extreme than he was used to.

His torturer looked impressed, flipped out his phone to scan the list of things that the Client, the one who had upset Mycroft, had found about the victim.

‘You only missed one thing.’ Sherlock hated being wrong, hated missing anything at all. This kill was quicker, the blade slid cleanly and he dropped to the floor within a moment, blood creeping towards Sherlock’s feet.

He didn’t move.

‘He has thrombophilia.’ Sherlock added, finally, and his torturer smiled.

‘Impressive.’ It wasn’t, all it had taken was Sherlock renouncing the emotions that clouded his judgement.

**

‘You are to remain here, Mycroft. And you, Dr Watson.’ That wasn’t an option, they would watch through the cameras on the soldiers as they entered the house.

Alex Mason, a former politician and an ambassador in relations between the United Kingdom and Argentina. Mycroft had been the one to have him sacked, after it was found that Moriarty’s spy-web stretched that far. The man’s home was now entered, only to find the politician hanging from the ceiling.

‘They knew we’d find him.’ Greg muttered, watching over John’s shoulder. The men moved further into the building, before something was discovered.

Dead bodies. A freezer-room full of them, and each one was checked to see if it might be the man they were looking for. John held his breath every time a body was rolled over, stared at the straight line across their throats.

‘A string of disappearances that made no sense.’ Anthea provided, tapping away on her mobile with the already identified victims, before the men moved deeper.

‘We’ve got a live one!’ On the screen, a man was forced to kneel, hands behind his head and a knife dropped to the ground.

John waited, watched as they approached a control panel that had too many buttons, and the door beyond it.

**

Sherlock knew they were coming long before it happened. His mind provided the information, and he decided to stay silent. Took a large step back, into his Mind Palace, away from the burning intensity of the lights and the constant sound.

When the door opened, he watched through his own eyes as the soldiers rushed forwards. They had not turned the lights down, nor attempted to turn off the sound, which was disappointing. Then came the medic, a person that rushed forwards and halted at the sight of him strung up in a straightjacket, before getting to work releasing him.

They were talking, but Sherlock wasn’t bothering to pay attention. He was focused on how they had found him before he had managed to figure out the plan himself. It was impossible, he was one of the smartest people alive, and it was always known that Mycroft grew slightly less able to deduct when it came to him being in trouble.

Eurus. They’d used his sister, he had to conclude, felt hands begin to move him from the door. He was still under the influence of some of the drugs, his limbs felt rather heavy, with people helping him out of the building.

An ambulance, how quaint. Sherlock didn’t respond to anybody as he was sat down, his shirt cut from his chest and the paramedic froze.

Of course. When Alex Mason found out that they were coming, he had one last request for the torturer to perform. A message for Mycroft Holmes, he’d been told.

Sherlock could have laughed at the woman’s shaking hands, her hesitancy to reach for his bloody stomach. Instead, he just let his eyes fall shut, no longer needing to see what was going on around him.

**

Mycroft was stopped before entering the room, John halting by his side and looking up to the Doctor.

‘A moment, Mr Holmes?’ John wanted to point out that everyone had been telling Mycroft he needed to be patient, and he was moments away from stabbing somebody with the umbrella he carried. Instead, he lay a careful hand on the man’s arm, warning him against such a thing.

Surprisingly, Mycroft relaxed into the touch. John removed his hand once he was sure the man would not harm the Doctor, glanced to where Greg and Molly had just watched the exchange.

‘What is it?’ Hardly polite, but better than nothing.

‘We’ve been unable to gain any response from your brother. He won’t respond to any stimulus, even though the drug levels in his system shouldn’t prevent it. As for the message…’

‘Message?’ Mycroft snapped, and the Doctor halted. Evidently, he presumed someone else had told them what that meant. The man quivered, paled as Mycroft’s impatience wore thin.

‘I… Mr Holmes can show you for himself, should he…’ That was the end of the conversation, Mycroft was striding past him and into the room, John quick to follow.

‘You’re the bloody Holmes whisperer.’ Greg muttered into his ear, while John pretended he hadn't heard it.

Sherlock looked… like he always did. He was propped up on the hospital bed, eyes focused on the window, the wires that wrapped around him hooked up to the monitors. Dressed in a hospital gown that left his arms bare, able to see a number of marks from restraints, and bruising consistent with being gripped.

When Mycroft had seen the straightjacket, John thought he’d been going to kill everyone in sight.

‘Brother mine.’ Mycroft moved to his side, but Sherlock didn’t turn away from the window. A strange silence fell, where the eldest didn’t know how to comfort, and turned to look at John.

‘Sherlock?’ He didn’t gain a response either, but he pushed forwards, moved to his friend’s side. Stood in between him, and the window, and watched as those bright eyes turned slowly. Not drugged, but they were missing the normal vibrancy that came with them.

Then, slowly, his eyes began to move. Down his frame, darting to different points, a look that could only match him deducting things. It hadn't happened in a long time, so why now?

**

John Watson was ex-military, and the similarities were startling. Sherlock considered all of them while sitting in his Mind Palace, listening to the sounds that buzzed through his head, the lights in the room nowhere near bright enough. Still, when he looked to them he winced, and Lestrade took that as a suggestion to turn them off.

The moment he did, Sherlock was amused to find his body once more betrayed him. His heart picked up, hands trembled as the adrenaline began to race through. His breathing quickened, increasing the ache on his stomach, and sweat began to form. Fear itself, easily readable for all those in the room.

The lights returned, with Mycroft’s barked command, and Sherlock finally turned his head to his brother.

He looked awful. He let his deductions happen, concluded how long his brother had gone without sleep or food, the last time he’d let Anthea take care of him. The last time he’d spoken to their Mummy, to let her know that Sherlock had gone missing.

‘You made a deal with Eurus.’ The words tasted foreign, his tongue too heavy in his mouth, but he managed to get his body roughly back to working in tandem with his mind.

‘That is the first thing you conclude, from all of this?’ Mycroft stayed quiet as John spoke, staring right at him.

The others may not have worked it out, but Mycroft had. He knew what loud noises and bright light would do to him, understood how the torture method worked very well. It was almost funny, the concern on his face, and Sherlock slowly smiled.

He reached for the tie on the robe, let it fall open to reveal the wound on his chest. Two words, nine letters, and Mycroft looked ready to pass out. John swore, but Sherlock paid no mind.

_Y O U F A I L E D_


	2. Caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caring is not an advantage

Sherlock took another step forward, over the line that he was not allowed to cross.

‘Sherlock.’ Eurus greeted, eyes flicking over him with amusement. They paused on his stomach briefly, before darting back up to his face.

‘Eurus.’ The older of the two took another step, until the glass was within his reach. They may think her a caged tiger, but Eurus was nothing of the sort. She was far too clever for their games, far more so than even Mycroft could predict. The lights, the sounds, they did not affect her as they had Sherlock.

‘It took me…’

‘Six days and thirteen hours to figure out who had taken me.’ Sherlock finished for her, bored of this game already. Eurus’ smile showed her impressed nature, the way she deducted all she could as they stood facing each other.

‘Did they put you in a straightjacket, brother?’ She looked intrigued, probably was staring at the slight tension in his right shoulder from having his arms wrapped around his body. If he wanted to, he could straighten his spine and hide the telling factor. There wasn’t much point in that, however.

‘You wanted to see me.’ He didn’t bother insulting her intelligence by answering that question. Eurus looked to the camera, then back to him.

‘I wanted to see the new and improved Sherlock Holmes. The one without emotion.’ Somewhere, deep in the furthest parts of his Mind Palace where he tried to hide during his torture, that had hurt. They had known how to crack him apart, just because of the fact he still cared.

‘And your verdict?’ He asked, tone neutral. He did not need her approval, did not need anyone’s approval.

When he left the hospital, he had refused to speak to Mycroft. Or John. Or Molly. Or Greg. In fact, he hadn't even responded to Anthea, who he had always tried to be polite to.

‘I’d like to test it.’ She stated, coming to the glass right opposite him. Her hand crept out, to press on the glass. He did not pause before returning the gesture, this time hitting the cool material between them.

‘Be my guest, sister.’ The term was an odd one, but he did not regret using it. Regret implied a higher level of emotion, after all. An ability to doubt his decisions.

‘Jim Moriarty.’ The first name was expected, he would have gone for that one first.

‘Greg Lestrade.’ An odd second choice, but perhaps it was the time frame that he had known the detective. Still, Sherlock kept his hand on the glass.

‘Molly Hooper.’ When Eurus had first tried this, Molly had been the one that broke him. This time, he sailed past the challenge.

‘John Watson.’ Her eyes were bright, calculating far faster than he could, and he longed to learn. To be as quick as she was. Did she ever doubt her decisions? He’d outsmarted her once, when he tucked the gun under her chin.

‘Mycroft Holmes.’ Eurus paused, cocking her head to the side.

‘I’m surprised, big brother.’

‘No you’re not.’ He countered, knowing she did not have the ability to feel such a thing. Her smile reminded him of a predator, cold and calculating.

‘Mary Watson.’ He flinched. Barely perceivable, only the slightest trigger.

‘That was interesting. Is she still inside your head?’ Another question he didn’t need to answer, Eurus was more than capable of figuring that out for herself.

‘I’m bored now. You should tell Mycroft that I’ll be seeing him soon, probably in around five months.’ Sherlock turned, walking back in the direction of the lift. He paused on the time frame, briefly looking over his shoulder.

‘You’re incorrect, sister.’ Amused, a smirk crossing her face.

‘How so?’

‘The terrorist attack will only take four months.’

**

He sat on the sofa, staring at the wall and wondering if John would ever leave. If Mrs Hudson would stop hovering in the doorway. If Molly Hooper would stand up off the floor, and take Rosie with her.

If Mycroft would ever stop staring at him like that.

‘Should we be worried about… old habits?’ John asked, referring to drugs. Intriguing things, he’d always needed them to detach, but this was far simpler. He didn’t bother answering, knowing his brother was capable of the deduction.

With them showing no intentions of leaving, Sherlock decided it was time to start an experiment. He rose up, moving across to the kitchen and stepping in, collecting the desired items.

Then he moved in the direction of his room, not bothering to say goodbye.

After all, they’d still be there tomorrow.

**

_‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’_

Death wasn’t a scary thing. Sherlock had always been intrigued by it, like now. Adrenaline, his body displaying signs of terror at the darkness that stretched around him. All his senses struggling to keep his body in check, his mind begging for an escape that didn’t exist.

Mycroft hadn't found him.

Betrayal. He shouldn’t be able to feel it, but he did, and it ached. The carving on his stomach reminded him of it at every moment, which was why he slipped further into the coldness.

Curse John Watson and his timing. Sherlock had predicted the time it would take for the Doctor to arrive, had taken everything into consideration except for one thing.

How long it would take him to lose his fear.

In the end, his deductions had been perfect. His mind far excelled whatever it had been before the torture, but his body was slowing him down. It still had too many connections, and the experiment that Sherlock had been attempting with the Ice bath were not enough to sever the connection.

John Watson did a lot of cursing. He swore, dragged Sherlock’s shivering body out of the water and wrapped him so tightly in towels that the Consulting Detective almost pulled himself out of his Mind Palace.

Then he called Mycroft.

Suicide. That was what they told him he had attempted, but Sherlock wasn’t sure why. The ice had been to numb him, the blood he had taken from his circulation was meant to inhibit his mind’s reactions by making him sluggish.

It had worked. For once, he hadn't even heard Mary Watson’s voice in his head.

Mycroft sat with him, while Sherlock sat on his bed and let his mind wander. There were so many things that he needed to think of, his brain was far too small to remember everything.

‘Sherlock.’ Mycroft said it so quietly, that Sherlock almost missed it.

‘I need you back, Sherlock.’

‘Caring is not an advantage, brother.’ The first words since the hospital, and they were the ones that he had grown up hearing. Mycroft rose his head, weary, and Sherlock found his chest suddenly too tight. It ached, his head falling silent and the thoughts slipping away.

‘I meant it, brother mine. Your loss would break my heart.’ The younger was not sure what he was doing, but his hand was moving. It stretched out, reached for Mycroft in a way that it hadn't since he was young.

‘It was so dark, Myc.’ That wasn’t Sherlock. It couldn’t be, because his eyes were filling with tears, and Mycroft was stripping off his jacket and boots and climbing up onto the bed.

Sherlock was falling, too fast, his head was a mess. He clutched at his brother, fingers tightening on his shoulders and his head resting on Mycroft’s shoulder.

‘I’d burn the world for you, Sher.’

Caring was not an advantage, but Sherlock had always been destructive.


End file.
